Lest Ye Become
by Brynn McK
Summary: "Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster; and if you gaze into the Abyss, the Abyss also gazes into you." S7, full-cast, S/B. WiP.
1. One

Title: Lest Ye Become

Rating: R

Author: Brynn McK

Spoilers: through _Same Time, Same Place_

Disclaimer: I am not making even a shiny nickel off of this.  Joss is God.  I want to bear his wispy-haired children.

Feedback: Yes please!  Here or at tmeyerswa@yahoo.com      

A/N: OK, this requires a little explanation.  Awhile ago, a very nice person named Igore (you can find his fic at http://www.fanfiction.net/profile.php?userid=234321) emailed me and told me that he had a character he wanted written about, and he wanted me to do it.  Being the shameless whore that I am, I said, "What?  Rip off someone else's idea in the process of ripping off someone else's idea?  Where do I sign up?!"  And thus this fic was born.  Therefore, all the credit for the creation of the Original Character herein goes to Igore.  Anything which puts you off about him is undoubtedly my fault.

Thanks very, very much to my brother for both the Nietzsche quote and for his help with the Gaelic and Latin.  If you enjoy discussing tenses of dead languages, email me and I'll put you in touch with him.  He's wicked smart, and I can't keep up.  Plus he's pretty cute.  Thanks also to the lovely and talented Serpentine (aka Devil Piglet), whose fic makes me drool in jealousy, for the beta.  You can find her work at  http://www.fanfiction.net/profile.php?userid=166621, and at her site, which is listed under her FF.net profile.  So go read it, she rocks.

On to the fic…

**************

"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster; and if you gaze into the Abyss, the Abyss also gazes into you."

-- Friedrich Nietzsche

**************

            _Fire.__  The world is fire, and rage, and agony, and white-hot emptiness hollowing his soul.  The screams make him cringe and exult as he channels, power twisting from one whole, one withered hand.  He can feel grit and smoke, smell flesh, and suddenly, a voice: "Father!"_

_            And she is there, just out of his reach, blond curls flaming like a wild halo around her head.  As he watches, her eyes slowly blacken, skin melting from bones.  A small hand stretches toward him, imploring, then falls to ash._

_            "No!"  The word tears from his throat.  He tries to stop, tries to douse the flame, but he is a slave to the power now.  "Kaia!  No!"_

_            He can do nothing but watch as the flame arrows from his fingertips and she burns, and burns, and burns—_

            He woke gasping, crying, hands twisted helplessly in the sheets.  The nightmare had come to him thousands upon thousands of times, but never like this, the pain still knifing through him even after waking.  He had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.  Instinctively groping for the source, he followed the scorched trail of agony in his mind to where a flame-haired girl knelt, eyes flashing black.  Her pain tangled with his own as her keening wail echoed in his ears, mingling with those of his victims: "Tara!  _Tara__!"_

            The loss in her voice made him weep.  And yet, a part of his soul exulted as he heard another voice in his mind, confirming what he had already known in his heart.

            _She's the one._

            _I know, Mother, he replied.  As always, her presence soothed him, enough that he could wrench himself away from the searing contact.  The link snapped, leaving behind an emptiness that had him breathing hard as he tried to collect himself.  Long moments passed while he focused on the steady intake and exhale of air, the awareness of his body from his toes to the claw of his ruined hand, the steady march of blood through his veins.  Finally, when he had calmed, when he had once again tended the wound in his heart, he rose slowly and began to prepare himself for the journey._

            But he could still hear the screams.

************

            The pain was so intense, Dawn could hardly keep from screaming.  She wondered if it could all be a bad dream, the shock, the betrayal, but no… it was all too real…  Finally, desperately, a single word tore from her throat: "Buffy!"

            Buffy looked up, innocently stirring her mai tai with an umbrella.  "What?" she replied sweetly, batting her eyelashes for good measure.

            "I told you I was coming here tonight," Dawn hissed, moving in on the table her sister and Willow were sharing.  "You can't be here."

            "That's funny, 'cause, check me out.  In the toned and tanned flesh."  Buffy grinned, then relented when her sister continued to glower at her with agonized intensity.  "We're here together all the time, Dawn.  What's the big?"

            Dawn rolled her eyes.  "I _told you.  __Nathan is here tonight.  And there's no __way he's gonna hit on me with the counselor who can give him detention looking over his shoulder.  Speaking of which, for a counselor, you're a pretty crappy listener."_

            "Sorry, I totally forgot," Buffy answered contritely, making her best apology face.  Dawn was unmollified.  "Look.  We're just sitting here in the corner, no one's even gonna—"

            "Dawn?"  A dark-haired, dark-eyed boy approached, hands stuffed into the pockets of too-big jeans.  Dawn narrowed her eyes for a last death-glare at her sister, then transformed her face into what she hoped was the image of coy sweetness as she turned to the newcomer.

            "Hey, Nathan."

            "Been looking for you."  He hitched a shoulder in her direction, reeking of pasted-on cool.  "Wanna dance?"  He suddenly caught sight of Buffy behind her, straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat.  "Oh.  Hi, Miss Summers.  I was just…"

            "Going to dance with my sister," Buffy finished brightly.  "Sounds like fun."

            "Oh.  Yeah.  I guess.  Um…"  Nathan's brow furrowed a bit, as if he was having trouble processing the situation.  Awkward silence descended, lingered, and was in danger of setting up permanent housekeeping when Willow intervened.

            "Dancing.  Right.  With the… movement, and the music, and the not standing in the corner."  She tried for an encouraging smile, raising an eyebrow at Dawn.

            "Right!  Movement.  Good idea."  Dawn grabbed Nathan's arm.  "C'mon."  She dragged him off like there was a Kreggkhash demon on their heels.

            "Have fun!" Buffy called after them, waving, as they disappeared into the crowd.  "How cute was that?" she squealed, turning to Willow.

            "Cute like a herd of puppies," Willow agreed.  "In an weird, teenage, I-never-want-to-be-there-again sort of way."

            Buffy sighed dreamily.  "If he hurts her, I'll break both his arms."

            "Sounds reasonable."  Willow nodded, stirred her own drink, a frothy concoction called Witches' Brew.  Buffy smiled, nostalgia overtaking her as she surveyed the familiar scene of the Bronze on a Friday night.  _There's where I danced my first dance with Angel.  There's where I failed miserably at studying French with __Willow__.  There's where Oz was standing when he found out there really are vampires.  There's where Faith always danced, where everyone could see her.  There's where I kissed Spike until I couldn't breathe.  There's where Spike and I— the memory train derailed abruptly as her eyes settled on the darkened catwalk, and she shuddered a bit, staring down into her drink.  Her smile had disappeared without a trace._

            "You OK?" Willow asked quietly.  The trust between them was still new, tenuous, layered like a scab over six years of friendship that were suddenly in question.

            Buffy wrinkled her nose, hitched a shoulder.  "Yeah.  Just remembering stuff.  Thinking about when we used to come here to do homework, and how much has changed since then, and how far we've come, and oh my God what the hell is that girl wearing?"  She pointed, gaping, at a girl no older than Dawn whose top seemed to consist of two leather postage stamps held together by a series of thin snakeskin straps.

            "Puts the skank in… skank-ho," Willow scoffed.  "Takes all the mystery out of it."

            "I'm telling you, Christina Aguilera has _killed fashion for an entire generation."  Buffy stabbed her umbrella into ice vengefully.  "And speaking of which, what is up with the music they're playing tonight?  They've played, like, two songs I know."_

            Willow frowned slightly, looking around.  "I know.  And… who _are these people?"_

            As soon as the words were out of Willow's mouth, her eyes met Buffy's over the table.  Their faces assumed identical expressions of horror.  "Oh God," Willow whispered.

            "We're _old!" Buffy wailed, burying her head in her hands in an attitude of utter despair.  "We will never be cool again!  I will have Mom-hair for the rest of my life!"_

            "It's not so bad, Buffy," Willow offered weakly.  "I was never cool anyway, and… the hair is good!  It's bouncy, and shiny, and healthy, and… all that other Pantene-y stuff."

            "Really?"  Wistful, from underneath splayed fingers.

            "Definitely."  Willow's reply was firm.  "Portia DiRossi would be jealous."

            Buffy sighed gustily.  "Well, at least that's something."

            "C'mon, we're not out of the running yet, right?  We're two hot, available chicks out looking for a good time."

            "Right."

            "Any member of either sex would be lucky to have us."

            "Right."  Buffy nodded, sat up straighter, smoothed her hair.  The spirit was beginning to move her.

            "And I have to go home now."

            "Ri--what?!"  Buffy's mouth dropped open, betrayed.

            Willow grinned regretfully.  "Sorry.  But I'm getting sleepy, and I still haven't gotten in my meditation today.  And for some reason, it doesn't work so well when I'm snoring."  She patted her friend on the arm, consoling.  "You wanna come with, or are you gonna stay here and break some hearts?"

            Buffy sighed again.  "None of the above.  But I guess I should stay and keep an eye on Dawn and Mr. Bigpants over there.  I've got to patrol in awhile anyway."  She pouted.  "Deserter."

            "Sorry.  I'll make it up to you this weekend."  One last pat, and Willow slid off the stool.  "Don't forget--hot.  Available.  Pantene hair."

            "Gotcha.  Be careful."

            Willow patted the stake tucked into her jacket pocket.  "No problem."

*************

            "`No problem,'" Willow repeated mockingly to herself as she pulled her jacket tighter around her.  "Why did I have to say that?  I always make fun of people in the movies who say that.  What would possess me to say that?"  She looked uneasily around her.  Truth be told, even armed and aware, she wasn't too comfortable jaunting around Sunnydale by herself at night.  It had been awhile since she'd practiced fighting vampires without the aid of magic, and she'd never done so alone.  She wasn't sure if she was more afraid of using her powers, or not being able to use them.  But she felt like she'd been on enough of a burden on Buffy as it was, and she wasn't about to ask for an escort just because she had to bail out early.

            Still, Sunnydale seemed to have even more cemeteries than usual that night.  She held her breath every time she passed one, counting the familiar number between the Bronze and the Summers house.  _Rockfield__… Halloway… Sacred Heart… only three more… Sparmount…_

            "Walking alone tonight, sweetheart?"

            _Shit.  _

            _I just had__ to say it._

            Willow ran.

            She got halfway down the block before she heard a roar behind her and felt the concrete tear into her skin as she fell beneath two hundred pounds of smelly vampire.  She kicked and struggled desperately, managing to work the stake out of her pocket and turn on her back.  At which point she found herself face-to-face with two hundred pounds of smelly, _fangy vampire._

            "_Much better, Will," she muttered to herself, wrinkling her nose and twisting her face away as the vamp laughed.  Fortunately, he was so busy laughing he didn't notice her legs were free, and she sent a knee slamming into his crotch with all the force she could muster.  He howled, rolled off, and she skittered backwards like a crab._

            "_Tenet!" she shouted, throwing out a hand, but the familiar tug and flow of the power refused to come.  "__Tenet!" she repeated, uselessly, as the vampire regained his feet, leaping towards her with another deafening roar._

            Her heart was hammering against her ribcage, and she knew the vampire could hear it.  He grinned malevolently as her as he wrestled her back down, this time pinning her legs with his.  The stake clattered from her hand as he slammed it against the concrete.  He reared back for the kill, mouth gaping, fangs dripping--

            "_Cremat__!" she screamed, and the power arced through her, and the world exploded into fire._

            It was everywhere, searing her skin, and she screamed again and rolled, blood from her burned arms mixing with the dust that settled around her.  She felt a jolt through her body as she tumbled off the curb and into the street, away from a sudden surge of heat that pushed at her even after she'd doused the flames on her clothes and hair.  She blinked through teary eyes and saw a tree next to the sidewalk engulfed in flames, the fire licking at the branches of neighboring foliage, and she knew she could stop it if she could just remember the words…

            "_Mùchtear__," came a deep voice from behind her, and the fire abruptly disappeared, leaving the smoking remains of the half-devoured tree behind it.  She rolled again, painfully, to see a dark-haired man regarding her with eyes that seemed to see through her._

            "Having some control problems, I see," he observed calmly, the hint of a smile playing around his lips.

            As the adrenaline slowed in her veins, Willow could feel the pain of her burns starting to overwhelm her.  "Ow," was the best reply she could manage as she tried unsuccessfully to lever herself up off the ground.

            "Apologies."  He moved swiftly to her side, placed a cool hand on her wrist.  "_Athchòrìtear__," he whispered, and she almost passed out with relief as the raw skin on her arms and face closed without a blemish, the pain mercifully disappearing along with the blisters.  "Better?"_

            She nodded wordlessly, and he rose again, striding towards the crippled tree, a battered cloak trailing behind him.  He stroked the bark gently.  "Wrong place at the wrong time, weren't you, friend?" he asked, his voice low and intimate.  "No matter.  _Athchòrìtear__," he repeated, and Willow watched in amazement as the tree stretched and sighed and slowly regrew itself, leaves sprouting from new branches that shed soot like rainfall.  The blackened grasses around the man's feet straightened and shone emerald in the moonlight.  He turned back to Willow, and now the hint had become a full-fledged smile._

            "How did you…" Willow wondered breathlessly.  "You can't just… that should take _weeks, if not…"  She trailed off, unable to process.  Finally, in disbelief, "Who __are you?"_

            He approached her slowly, eyes shadowed, still smiling.  "Your teacher, if you would have one."  When she didn't reply, he came closer, crouched down in front of her, his cloak pooling around him.  "_Athchòrìtear__.  To restore.  To make whole.  As I have done with your burns, and those of our friend over there."  He gestured towards the renewed tree.  "But you have other wounds.  Ones I cannot heal so easily."  His smile faded, and he lifted one shoulder in a regretful half-shrug.  "Some, I cannot help you with at all.  But I will teach you what I can, about magick, about balance, about control.  If you would learn."  He put a hand on her shoulder.  "__And I will not fear you."_

            Willow jerked back instinctively.  _They're afraid of me, she'd told Giles when he'd asked her about the coven.  They all were, even here, her friends never quite able to forget that cheerful, brainy Willow with her day-of-the-week underwear was also black-haired, black-souled Willow  who'd tried to end the world.  Even Xander remembered it--she occasionally caught him looking too appraisingly at her when he thought she wasn't looking, and she didn't think all the yellow crayons in the world could change that.  And she knew she deserved it all, even if she sometimes felt as if her power wasn't part of her, but a parasite, eating away at her control and whatever life she tried to make for herself until eventually there would be nothing left of her.  If this man could teach her, and not be afraid… yet how could she trust a stranger, and one so obviously powerful, just on his word and a healing spell or two?_

            He nodded as if she'd responded, though she hadn't spoken a word.  He reached into a pocket and placed something on the asphalt between them.  It was a small rock, worn smooth, a strange sigil etched into it.  "You enjoy reading, yes?"  She blinked at him, confused, and his smile returned.  "This symbol, and its history, appears in many Wiccan texts.  Find it, learn what you will, and make your decision.  If you want my aid, trace this sigil in water.  I will find you.  If you decide to continue alone…"  He shrugged again, but the sudden look of sadness on his face brought tears pricking at her eyes.  He reached out almost tentatively and placed a large hand over hers.  "It is a difficult road, and I wish you well."

            The shock of the attack, her loss of control, her sudden rescue, and now _this, was enough to render Willow completely speechless.  She was still gaping in an excellent imitation of a landed fish when she realized he'd disappeared._

TBC


	2. Two

            The sight of her sister slumped over her desk, half-buried in files and books, was too much for Dawn to resist.  She crept quietly closer, using the stealth techniques Buffy had been teaching her all summer, and positioned herself for optimum audio impact.  A deep breath, a clenching of diaphragm, and then, "_BUFFY!"        _

            Buffy shot up out of her chair like a bottle-blonde rocket, and Dawn had half a second to reflect that maybe scaring the hell out of a sleeping Slayer wasn't the best idea before her sister lunged at her, eyes glassy and unseeing.    

            "Buffy, it's me!" Dawn shouted as she deflected a Slayer-strength punch, using her sister's own momentum and disorientation to power her out of arm's reach.  But Buffy recovered quickly and Dawn went sprawling as her sister tackled her, case files and contraband fashion magazines flying as they hit the desk.

            "Buffy!" Dawn repeated, struggling, and heaved a sigh of relief as Buffy froze suddenly, her eyes beginning to clear.

            "Dawn?"

            Dawn snorted.  "Ah, I don't think _duh even scratches the surface here."_

            Buffy blinked, shaking her head a bit.  "Um.  Sorry.  Dreaming."

            "Yeah, well, can you get off me now before Principal Wood comes in and wonders why you're trying to smother your sister?"

            "Sorry."  Buffy levered herself upright, then extended a hand to Dawn, who took it with an injured air.

            "Man," Dawn commented, brushing herself off theatrically, "no more Pizza Pig-Outs for Buffy, if you're gonna be doing that."

            "_Whatever."  Even through her confusion, the response was automatic.  "You weigh more than I do."_

            Dawn sniffed.  "Only because I'm taller.  I'm going to grow up to be an Amazon, and kick your ass."

            "Uh-huh."  Buffy raised an eloquent eyebrow.  Then, as a vague impression came back to her, "Speaking of which, did I notice you got in a pretty decent move there at the beginning?"

            "Yup," Dawn responded proudly.  "Threw you halfway across the room—"

            "Before I regrouped and squashed you like a bug."  After all, sisterly pride was one thing, but…

            Dawn shrugged, undeterred.  "Yeah.  There was that part, too."

            "Still," Buffy couldn't help smiling, "a year ago I would've just squashed you.  You'll be an Amazon in no time."

            "Got a good teacher."

            Buffy gave her eyebrow another workout.  "You still can't patrol without me."

            Sighing, "Girl's gotta try."  Then, as Buffy began gathering up her scattered paperwork, "Ooh.  Getting blood on the top secret files, there, champ."

            Buffy glanced at her knuckles, realizing she'd left a significant portion of them on the sharp edge of the desk.  "That'll teach me to fight when I'm asleep."

            "Yeah."  But Dawn's mind had already jumped to something else.  After a brief pause, she blurted, "What do you think Spike's eating these days?"

            "Don't want to know."  Buffy made a conscious effort to keep from cringing, to continue the seamless motion of sorting papers.  She hated hearing anyone say his name aloud these days.  It made him real, and she didn't want him to be real, locked away muttering in the basement, wrestling with the soul he'd sought for her.  Wasn't her fault.  And it wasn't something she wanted to discuss even with Dawn, who might be the only one to understand how she had dreaded and secretly hoped for his return.  _I wanted him to come back so we could resolve things.  That's all.  To make a clean break.  Civilized.  And now he was anything but, and she didn't know how to treat him, what to say or feel, and she just wanted it all to go away…_

            She realized Dawn was still looking at her, expecting something more in response.  She forced a laugh.  "What--you see blood and you automatically think of Spike?"

            "No.  Well, sometimes.  This time because it reminded me of when they brought you back, and he came looking for me, and saw you…"

            _"How long was I gone?"_

            "One-hundred and forty-seven days yesterday.  One hundred and forty-eight days today.  'Cept today doesn't count, does it?"

            And he looked at her like he never wanted to look at anything else, ever.

            Buffy slammed the door shut on the memory.  "I don't remember.  I was pretty confused."

            "Me, too."  Dawn hesitated, then stepped closer.  "I still kinda am.  Buffy, what are we supposed to do with him?  I mean, he hurt you, and I don't get that, and I'm so mad at him, but now he's got the soul, and he's all grubby and wacko, and what are we supposed to do?"

            _Mind-reader, Buffy accused her sister silently.  But she still didn't want to talk about it.  She didn't realize that Dawn could see the familiar shutters closing behind her eyes._

            _Bye, Buffy, Dawn thought regretfully, and she knew the conversation was, to all intents and purposes, over._

            "I don't think we're _supposed to do anything."  Buffy had perfected the art of not caring, now suddenly engrossed in an apparently fascinating book jacket.  "You can __choose to do whatever you want.  But he's a big boy.  He can take care of himself."  __And so can I._

            _Not so sure about that, Dawn frowned inwardly, but left her sister to her work._

***************

            _I'm in a dank, disgusting basement with walls that move, built right over the Hellmouth, where zombies tried to kill me not too long ago, carrying a container full of blood to a crazy vampire.  Wonder what kids at other high schools do when they're skipping class?  The erstwhile Key shuddered, trying to ignore the distant skittering of rats.  At least she hoped they were rats.  And she hoped they were distant.  She shuddered again, clutched the Tupperware container tighter, then grimaced and let go as she realized what she was clutching.  __This sucks.  Couldn't have gone back to the crypt, couldja, Spike?  Nooooo, had to be the most ickifying, creepy, evil-infested—_

            She stopped suddenly, listening.

            "Can't pay… not enough coin, the Muse doesn't pay in pound notes… hafta pay, hafta work, I can be a hard worker if someone would just _teach—" _

            "Spike?" she called tentatively, beginning to move as quietly as possible in the direction of the voice.

            The muttering fell silent for a moment, then, "Can't be here, never hurt you, oh God, I failed, but it's not the same, you're not playing by the rules…"

            She walked faster, turned a corner and found him, huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around drawn-up knees.  His eyes flicked up to her, and the naked fear in them shattered what few reservations she had about coming here.  He tried to scrunch further into the wall.

            "Spike, it's OK."  She tried to keep the wiggins from her voice.  It was so _weird to see him like this…  He'd always been the one taking care of her.  Wasn't supposed to be the other way around.  She knelt in front of him, set the container on the ground.  "It's just me.  I thought you might be hungry."_

            A little of the fear left his eyes, and he looked closely at her.  Tentatively, he reached out a trembling finger to touch the fall of her hair.  "Dawn?"

            "Yeah."  She tried to smile a little, and he echoed it, the ghost of a curve playing around his lips.

            "Forgot your torch," he whispered conspiratorially. 

            Her forehead wrinkled.  "Huh?"

            "Gonna burn me, you'll need a torch."  He sat up straighter, businesslike, and began to lever himself to his feet.  "Lots of wood around here, though, we can make one—"

            "Spike."  She caught his arm, flustered, before he could stand.  He cocked his head at her, genuinely confused and even a little disappointed.

            "But you promised."

            Something twisted in Dawn's gut.  "I…"  She sighed.  It wasn't supposed to be this complicated.  "I'm not gonna burn you, OK?  Not right now.  Just…"  She shoved the container towards him.  "Just eat.  It's getting cold.  And I snuck into the faculty room to heat it up, which wasn't easy, so don't waste it."

            He eyed it warily.  "Can't," he whispered, shaking his head.

            She rolled her eyes, frustrated in spite of herself.  Florence Nightingale wasn't her style, and he obviously wasn't taking care of himself—the shadows in his cheeks and around his eyes stood out like bruises.  "The pig is pork chops by now, Spike.  It doesn't care.  Just eat."

            He held out for another moment, the hunger sharp and desperate in his eyes.  Finally, he snatched up the container, peeled back the lid, and retreated to the corner, his back to her.  She made a face at the greedy slurping sounds as he downed it in record time.  When he was finished, he carefully replaced the lid on the container and sat in silence, his forehead pressed against the angle where the walls met.  When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, but controlled.  "Thanks."

            "Better?"  The wild, strangled sound he made in reply told her just how relative a term "better" had become.  "Right.  Sorry."

            "Don't be."  He shrugged, turned his head enough that she could see his profile, sharp and haggard.  "Sweet thing like you, couldn't know what this is like.  Shouldn't know."

            Dawn's mouth hardened.  "Don't say I'm sweet.  I'm still mad at you.  And as soon as you're sane enough to give me some answers, I've got a lot of stuff to yell at you about."

            He gave a short, bitter laugh.  "Sane as I get, here, pet.  Holler away."

            Taken aback, but crossing her arms defiantly, "OK, then.  Why?"

            "Why what?"

            "Why'd you leave?"

            That clearly wasn't the question he was expecting.  He turned around to face her, squatting on his heels, arms dangling over his knees.  His expression was an odd mix of surprise, fear, and a kind of suspicion.  "How could I have stayed?"

            "You're supposed to be _answering, not asking more questions!"  _

            He looked down, began tracing patterns on the floor with a finger, but his voice remained low and steady.  "I hurt her.  Couldn't stand myself.  Couldn't stand my own skin.  Couldn't face her again, had to do something…."

            Dawn felt angry tears, delayed for months, start to sting her eyes.  She knew he could probably smell them--it was how he'd always anticipated her nightmares, that long summer without Buffy--but she refused to let them fall.  "We needed you."

            One shoulder came up defensively, and he flinched away as if she'd hit him.  "Don't."

            "Don't need you?  Don't worry about you?  It's too late for that, Spike!  You can't play cards with me and save my life and tell me stories and then expect me to not even care when you're gone!"

            He backed up towards the wall, hunched over.  "You can't care, you shouldn't, Dawn, _please--"  His voice was starting to shake, but all the pent-up hurt and frustration was pouring out of her like a volcano erupting, and she couldn't stop it._

            "Well, I do care!  And I want you to explain it to me!  Spike!"  She grabbed his shoulders, hanging on doggedly despite his attempts to twist away.  "Explain it to me, dammit!  How could you do it?  How could you hurt her like that?"  Tears spilled over, dripping off her chin.  "You hurt the one person I thought you'd never touch and then you left and _I want you to tell me why!"_

            She was shaking him, sobbing, screaming, and then his face suddenly distorted into ridges and fangs and he roared, rising to his feet, breaking her grip with such force she sprawled backwards.  "Because I'm _wrong, all right?" he yelled, a growl roughening the words.  "That's what you all want to hear, isn't it?"  And she saw his eyes were wild as he scanned the room, addressing an absent audience.  "I'm dark, and I'm bad, and it's in me, this hate and anger and twisted beast and it's __in me, and it'll never be gone."  Before Dawn had time to blink, his eyes were blue again, features smooth, though contorted in pain.  "And now he's here, too, burning like crosses, and her eyes, looking at me, __stop looking at me!"  He threw both arms up in front of his face, retreated to the corner, curled around himself and rocked back and forth, back and forth._

            Dawn lay exactly as she'd fallen, panting, tears still leaking, too stunned and horrified to move as he muttered and twitched and rocked.  Finally, softly, "Spike?"

            He jerked, but wouldn't look at her as he continued to murmur, too low for her to hear.  She crept closer, and she could just make out, "Quiet, stay quiet quiet not real not real not real not real…."

            She reached out to touch him, but he cried out with such fear in his voice that she withdrew her hand immediately.  Tears started fresh.  "I don't know what to do, Spike…  I don't know what to do…."

            "Quiet quiet quiet quiet quiet…" in an endless litany.

            At last, she wiped her eyes, sniffed, and slowly rose to her feet.  "I've gotta go… figure stuff out.  But I'll be back, OK?  I'll be back."

            If he heard her, he made no sign, and the sound of his desperate murmuring followed her all the way out, up the stairs, and into the light.

***********

            He was in almost the same place when she returned two days later, and he watched her with flat eyes as she approached him solemnly, placing a paper bag in front of him like an offering.

            "Hi."

            "Hi."  His voice was rough, as if all of his years of smoking had suddenly caught up with him.  His legs stretched out in front of him, arms hanging listlessly at his sides, she could still see the exhausted tension in him.

            "Little less with the crazy today?" she offered tentatively.

            He lifted a shoulder, eyes flicking up to the ceiling and back.  "Comes and goes."

            "Yeah."  She shifted from foot to foot, awkwardly, then took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.  "So.  I've been thinking."

            "Yeah?"

            "Yeah.  And… I don't think I'm ever going to understand what happened with you and Buffy, even if you could explain it to me in a remotely sense-making way.  It's not like there's really any good excuse anyway.  And I hate that you hurt her, and I can't forget that.  But," and she crouched in front of him, "you were always there, last summer, and… we've been through stuff together, and there aren't a lot of people who care about me, and you felt bad enough to get a soul, which is obviously _no fun at all…"  She wrinkled her nose, tossed her hair in annoyance.  "This all sounded way better in my head.  The point is, Spike, I love you.  I can't help that.  And I don't want you to be alone."_

            She watched him closely, half-expecting him to flip out, but he just sat there, staring at her with an expression she couldn't read.  Deliberately, she moved closer, her arm just barely touching his as she rested her back against the wall next to him.  He was perfectly still, in the way only vampires and corpses could be.  After a moment, reassured by his apparent lack of craziness, she tipped her head to the side and rested it against his shoulder.

            She felt his chest rise and fall in one of his unnecessary sighs.  "Hungry?" she asked quietly, eyes fixed on the paper bag.

            "Nah," he whispered.  "Had a rat earlier."

            There was a hint of the Spike she knew in his voice, and she couldn't hold back a tiny giggle.  It felt good.  "Missed you," she said, so softly he might not have heard it without his enhanced senses.

            He didn't say anything, but suddenly the tension drained out of his body, and she felt dampness creeping into her hair where he'd rested his cheek against it.  Closing her eyes, she prayed fervently to whoever was listening that everything would turn out all right.

*************

A/N: I'm having italics issues.  Sorry if anything seems weird; and if anyone knows how to fix this, please feel free to email me!  In the meantime, sorry.


	3. Three

A/N: Very sorry to be so long in updating.  I'll try to do better in the future. sheepish grin  Also, I'd like to announce that this fic is now officially engaged to ptp, whose lovely site can be found at http://pt-p.net/lit.shtml.  We will keep you updated as to the impending nuptials, though at this rate, it looks likely to be a long engagement.

Thanks _so much for all the wonderful reviews.  I would like to include here my vows of eternal love to Myrtle for the beta, and of course for other reasons._

Finally, bear in mind that in terms of canon, this fic only goes as far as "Same Time, Same Place."  For my purposes, anything after that never happened, and anything before that is fair game. :)

****************

            Willow sighed as she clapped another book shut and set it on the growing pile beside her.  "Nothing in here, either," she complained, rubbing her eyes.  Her legs, curled under her, were beginning to ache.

            "Maybe he got the symbol wrong," Anya suggested from the depths of the couch.

            "He wouldn't get the symbol wrong, it's his symbol.  His thing."  Willow glanced over the books again, trying to find one she might have missed.

            "What is he, the powerful magic guy formerly known as Prince?"  Anya tsked.  "Totally pretentious.  Not to mention overdone.  Plus, how are people supposed to summon him if they can't even find his sigil?  Sounds fishy if you ask me, which of course you didn't, because no one ever does, it's always, `Anya, your opinions are tactless and ill-phrased' and…"  She paused, rolled over to narrow her eyes at Willow.  "You're thinking that right now, aren't you?"

            "No, I just--"

            Anya's face fell, and she rolled back into the cushions.  "Whatever.  It doesn't matter anyway."

            Willow frowned.  "I _wasn't thinking that, Anya.  I really wasn't."  When Anya didn't respond, she continued, "I was just thinking…  This isn't right.  Doing research like this.  There should be… I don't know.  Laughing.  And Giles.  And donuts."_

            "And stupid jokes."  Very small and cushion-muffled.

            "Exactly.  It just… it sucks without all that."

            "Well," Anya levered herself up onto one elbow, "no one's avoiding _you like a Partuch with a skin rash.  I'm sure if you asked, they'd all come rushing to your aid."_

            Willow lifted a shoulder, uncomfortable.  "I know."  She paused for a moment, then, "I don't want them to worry about me.  About what I might do."

            "And it doesn't matter if _I worry?  You wouldn't believe the security deposit on this place, and I __still don't know how to cover up the burn marks from last time.  Even if it did get a little sexy, that's no reason for you to __assume that--"_

            "Anya," Willow blurted suddenly, as the reason behind Anya's anger and defensiveness clicked into place.

            "What?" 

            Willow took a deep breath, making sure to speak slowly and deliberately. "I'm really, really sorry about the Magic Box."

            The sadness that was always hovering around Anya seemed to descend suddenly, dropping like a weight onto her body.  "Oh."  Here eyes went distant for a moment, and then her lips curved in a tiny smile, wry and resigned.  "Sorry doesn't help, though, does it?"

            Willow nodded, looked down.  "Nope.  It sure doesn't."

            They were quiet for a minute, each locked in her own thoughts, until Anya stood up abruptly and brushed off her skirt with a businesslike air.  "Well.  Time to go make other people sorry.  People who really deserve it."

            Willow really had no idea what the appropriate response to that was, so she just went with the tried-and-true, "Um."  Then, "Thanks for letting me look at these.  Are you sure this was all that was leftover from the store?"

            "Yeah, that's about it."  The ex-ex-demon was making a show of primping in the mirror, pulling her dark hair into place.  Her hands faltered a little as she added quietly, "I think Buffy might have taken a box of Tara's books with her."

            Caught off guard, Willow felt the now-familiar freezing ache in her chest at hearing Tara's name.  She had a sudden, painful flash of memory.

            _"That's right.  The, the volume.  The text."_

            "The volume-y text."

            She cleared her throat, blinked away the sudden blur of tears.  Anya watched her reflection in the mirror, concerned, hands stilled.

            "You OK?" she asked.  "Not feeling like starting any furniture-damaging fires or skinning any bystanders, are you?"

            Willow couldn't help smiling.  In the past, she'd often found Anya's irrepressible Anya-ness to be annoying; now it was weirdly comforting.  "No.  Your security deposit's safe with me."

            Anya nodded firmly.  "Good.  Well, then, feel free to enjoy my personal space at any time."  She smiled, pleased at her magnanimity, then continued, "Except when I'm busy.  Which is actually now."

            Willow's smile turned into a grin.  "I'll be going now."  She clambered to her feet, shifting from side to side as pins and needles raced up and down her legs.  "Ow.  I wish--"

            "Don't," Anya cut her off sharply.  Willow glanced up at her in surprise.  The other woman's face was twisted in a strange expression of sternness and fear.

            "Sorry."  But Anya's expression didn't change.  Willow knew there was something the other woman wasn't telling her.  After an awkward silence, she offered, "Are _you OK?"_

            "Just… I don't mix business and friends."  Anya tried to smile, failed.

            Willow nodded slowly.  "OK."  And suddenly found herself being ushered out the door.

            "Thanks for stopping by.  Try not to go all evil on the way home."

            That hurt, but Willow was too confused to really register it.  "Of course.  But Anya--"  She was left blinking as the door slammed in her face.

            On the other side, Anya slammed the bolt home, leaned against the door, breathing heavily.  _Just in time, she thought, feeling a familiar energy blossoming in the room.  A swirling blue tornado spun itself into existence in front of her, and a few seconds later she was staring into the impassive face of D'Hoffryn._

            "Hi!"  She tried for an innocent grin.  "Come to see my new place?"

            "You have refused a wish, Anyanka."  There was no trace of his usual humor and sympathy in his expression.  His voice boomed in her chest.

            "She didn't wish!" she cried defensively.

            "Because you prevented her."

            "It wasn't a vengeance wish anyway."  Her heart was pounding.

            "No matter.  This is not the first time, and both of us know it.  All of your sisters know it.  Practically all of the demon world knows it."  He took a step closer, and she unconsciously pressed herself back against the door.  "It will not be news to you, Anyanka, that we are not pleased with your work."

            "I know."  She tried to keep her voice calm.  "It just takes awhile to get back into the swing of things--"

            "We are finished coddling you.  This is no game.  This is what you _are.  What you chose to be."  He was towering over her now, seeming to fill the entire room.  "And there are worse punishments than restricting your teleportation rights."_

            Anya felt her knees buckle, her stomach shiver.  "I'll do better," she whispered.

            "See that you do.  Something is rising here, child.  And when it does, you will either be behind it, or in its path.  You do not want to be in its path."  He vanished abruptly in a shower of blue sparks.

            Weak with relief, Anya slid slowly down the door, felt the impact through her body as she hit the floor.  She gave a high, mirthless laugh as she realized that D'Hoffryn's departure had left a scatter of tiny burns on her carpet.  Burying her head in her knees, she fisted her hands in her now-dark hair and tried with everything in her not to cry.

***********

            Willow closed the book gently, rested her head against the bed.  Her eyes ached from a full day of research, but at least she had a little more information now.  At least she thought she did, though according to what she'd found the being associated with that particular sigil was more myth than man.  There were accounts of witches saved at the last moment by a nameless, ageless man who disappeared immediately afterwards; there were hints of a dark and violent past; there were mentions of a being who brought peace to witches just before their deaths; there were admonitions of secrecy from all outside the Wiccan religion.  Which explained, Willow thought, why she'd never heard of him before.  The spiritual side of magic had always been more Tara's domain than hers.

_Tara__.  Willow brought her eyes back to the book in her lap, though the words on the cover blurred in front of her.  The books had been easy enough to find once she knew they were there--over the past weeks she'd forced herself to become desensitized to the Tara-ness that lingered in every room of Buffy's house, but once she allowed herself to focus on it again, and on the unique flavor that colored Tara's best-loved possessions, it didn't take her long to find the box, carefully tucked up in a corner of Buffy's closet.  Once she'd found them, she'd closed off her senses to everything but what was in front of her, knowing that the information took priority, but now she ran her fingers slowly over the leather cover, letting her guard slip for just a moment.  __Tara touched this, she thought, __and she loved it, like she touched and loved me, and I can still feel her here, and we were so close to this room the last time we--_

The grief hit her like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of her, taking her by surprise.  Every time she thought she was getting better, it came back, and came back worse.  She doubled over, clutching the book, images flashing unbidden through her brain of Tara with blood on her chest and that shocked look on her sweet face, collapsing over and over and over again and Willow was _angry, so angry and hurt and pain and revenge and blood and--_

Willow jumped as the bedroom window banged open, the wind pouring rain inside, startling her back to herself.  She distantly noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks as she dove for the window, forced it shut against the gale.  Lightning arced across black clouds which, moments before, had been clear blue southern California sky.  She stood there for a moment, confused, still gasping through sobs, brain spinning as she tried to grasp why this might be happening.

Suddenly, her knees buckled and she smacked her arm hard against the windowsill as she tumbled to the floor.  Through the heady haze of adrenaline, she felt the familiar light-headedness that always followed the rush of power out of her.  And she knew.

_I did this._

_I did this, and I didn't even know it._

The room was too small.  The house was too small.  She couldn't breathe.  She stumbled down the staircase, clutching the banister for support, grabbing onto the doorknob like a lifeline.  As she threw herself outside, the rain drenched her immediately, pounding against her.  She had a frenzied thought to try to reverse what she'd done, but somewhere in the back of her mind, Ms. Harkness was telling her that playing with weather patterns was dangerous and it was best to let it run its course.  She laughed a little hysterically, falling to her knees on the wet pavement.  She reached out a trembling finger and drew the now-familiar sigil in the pattern of raindrops on the sidewalk.  Then, chest heaving, she forced herself to her feet, to face whatever was coming.

And there he was, cloak swirling in the wind, dark hair whipping around his face.  His eyes seemed almost white, though in the shifting light it was difficult to tell.  She clenched her fists, planted her feet, dripping but defiant as she ground out the words:

"Teach me." 

He smiled.  "Gladly."  He raised a hand, spoke a word she couldn't quite hear, and everything around them disappeared.


End file.
